Soft
by ScatterSunshine50
Summary: Some of Edgar's thoughts and impressions during his "schooling." Edgar/Shelley fluff.


Soft

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Before I came here, my world consisted only of hard, damp rock and unrelenting darkness. My life had little room for any thoughts other than those that kept me alive. The sun, with all its light and inviting warmth, was there only to give predators eyes to hunt. The world outside my cave was nothing but an invading threat to my survival, and my castle of cold, stone walls that kept me safe from the outside was all I knew.

Sometimes, when the air thickened with warm summer heat and took the dankness with it, I would wait until night to venture out of my cave for a cool drink, but not before taking a moment to stretch out and lie in the feathery green prickles I would later learn was named "grass." I could never stay long – there were always predators on the outside, and a flightless animal was an easier target than an able-bodied one. Even so, those rare moments in the rarer green were my only proof that there existed something "else" in the world outside. Somewhere, there existed an exception to my dark world. Somewhere, there is grass, that can poke and prod and feel like needles on your skin like rocks so often can, but can smell like rainfall and fresh earth and can caress your bare skin the way stone never can. This place is like that, too. Full of exceptions. Here, everything is gentle and forgiving.

Soft sounds. Not like the cold, empty melodies I would so often sing to myself as a lonely respite from the stifling quiet. Nor was it the prattling cacophony of screeches and constant flap of wings I had come to know as home. Here the sounds of this new world are gentle, deliberate song that feels so warm and familiar that it reverberates through my entire body and makes my heart swell with so much emotion that I know, just from listening to their music, that there is more to this world than I initially knew. Dr. Parker hums a tune on his way out to work, and I hum it back until he turns around and acknowledges my understanding with a smile. Mrs. Parker plays what she calls "Beethoven" and "Mozart" for me, and I swear I've never heard anything more beautifully structured in my life. I make a habit of sitting by Shelley at the piano bench nowadays, listening to her practice. She is getting better at the piece she is playing, letting the music flow from line to segment, rising and falling down the keys, louder and softer as it swells until it fills the entire room. She says she is not very good, but when I close my eyes and listen, I swear it's like she's talking to me in a language any animal can understand. It's a language that speaks directly to my soul, and I don't think I really knew I had a soul until then, but now I know I must if I'm able to feel this way. Abruptly the music stops as a quiet tear runs down my cheek.

"Edgar! Are you okay?!" I nod quickly, but even through my tears, I am smiling, hands clasping over my chest like I am afraid my heart will spill out of it.

Gentle words. Not like the shrill screeches or high-pitched chirps of the bats, but a complicated, systematic language I can't even begin to comprehend. I don't understand all of the subtle nuances and cadences of this strange new language, but I do know that when Mrs. Parker says "good night" to me every night, that the softness in her voice is filled with love and sincerity. That when Shelley sits down to talk to me, she is smiling. I have nothing to offer her but blank stares and formless chirps, but nonetheless, she continues to talk to me, for no apparent reason other than to talk. Her words are soft and kind, and though I may not understand them all, there is a warmth to them that tells me that Shelley is here with me because she wants to be. I've never known any other reason to communicate with others other than to communicate survival. It is here, in these quiet moments as I desperately try to grasp these creature's language, that I realize I am not just searching for understanding. I am searching for a friend.

Soft touches. Mrs. Parker's hand on my back, brushing soothingly along my shoulders. Dr. Parker's hands on my arms, holding me up as I learn to walk upright, firm and strong. I have never been touched like this before. Sometimes I close my eyes and think back to nights huddled in the cold with my family securely around me to keep me from freezing through the night, their bodies like tiny weights on my chest, a dozen constant reminders that I would make it through the morning. But nothing compares to the feeling of being completely enveloped in someone my own size, with arms that can fit around me pulling me close even when there is no cold and there is no dire need for contact. Just because. That is the way with these creatures, it seems, I think as Mrs. Parker holds me close. They do things just because. Do they do this because they are so safe from harm that they have ascended to worrying about higher needs? I don't understand, but I want to understand, this need for closeness that seems to surpass all else. As I reach for Shelley's hand, I can only begin to wonder at the unfamiliar swelling of my neglected heart. This place, if anything, has reminded me that I have one.

Soft eyes. Sometimes when I look at Shelley, my heart skips a beat, and I don't know why. I am not in any danger, and do not feel any fear. I look at her eyes, though, and they are soft and smiling, and yet my body reacts as if I am staring in the eyes of a wild predator. Shelley's eyes are not threatening though. She comes to me without malice or menace, and I allow it, hesitantly trusting those benevolent eyes like I have never learned to trust another creature before. Though I have never seen such a look, they make me feel like I am home. I realize that only now do I know what it feels like to know that I am safe, that I am home. I realize I don't want to look at anybody else but her.

Soft hands. At times I still don't know what to do with my own, but when Shelley gently places her hand over mine and I can feel her fingers intertwine in my own, it dawns on me that our hands are the same size. I have never seen another creature with hands as big as my own, and the revelation is elating. Surely I was meant to be with this person. My palms are rough compared to hers, bruised and calloused and scarred from a life of scraping skin against unforgiving stone. Her fingers weave mine, soft and sheltered, and something about the contact makes me feel warm inside. I may not understand these creatures' habits and customs any more than I understand their need for contact and closeness, but I know that it makes me feel happy, and that alone is reason enough to believe that they are worth understanding. I want to understand. I want to continue to feel this warmth that I feel now. Maybe then I can understand why I suddenly need it, too.

Soft hair. I can't help but watch Shelley as she relaxes against the couch, schoolbook in her hands and eyes meticulously pouring over the words inside, oblivious of my presence and of my hammering heartbeat. I had lived in the dark my entire life, but when I look at this radiant creature it is as if golden sunshine emanates from her so fully that it spills from the very top of her head. My hand reaches out of its own accord to touch it, to catch even the smallest glimpse of sunshine that I have been so deprived of. Her eyes flicker away from her book to look at me as my hand comes up to touch her head, fingers tentatively sifting through golden locks. Her hair feels so soft underneath my course, unrefined fingers and a bubble of shame wells up inside me, but then she smiles and I am home once more.

Soft skin. Our eyes meet and she is unwaveringly still, and tentatively I reach out to gently touch my Sun, her cheek so warm against my fingers like I always dreamed the Sun would be. She closes her eyes and leans her cheek against my palm, a small, knowing smile pushing at the corners of her mouth. I run my thumb wonderingly across it, tracing the contours of her smile that I've so meticulously studied. She slowly opens her eyes and watches me as I map out her face, fingers brushing ever so softly against warm, pale skin, drinking in her eyes, her smile, her everything. She is my everything.

Soft lips. I stare intently in those eyes that I have learned so well to trust, and know in an instant that I am home, that I am loved, that I am hers. That this warmth swelling deep inside my chest is now something that I know I can't live without, that my former self is nothing compared to the depth of emotion I'm capable of feeling for this one person. That when her lips finally close in to meet mine and I feel my heart explode inside me, that I am finally alive. Soft mouth. Soft kisses. With every kiss she breathes into me I feel my world of stone melting around me, little by little, like melting wax, until all that is left is a me that is suddenly unfit for hard, unforgiving stone, a me that is, with all the gentleness that these creatures exhibit, human.


End file.
